


Your Kisses Hard Like Armor

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 12:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15412947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: For several long moments, Jon can only stand and stare at her, looking nearly like a startled stag. Would that make her the huntress? Sansa smiles at the notion. His face is streaked with grime and sweat and even blood. The girl Sansa was, the girl Jon had known so long ago, would have shuddered delicately and turned away in distaste. The woman Sansa is drops the cloak wrapped around her nude body and opens her arms to him.





	Your Kisses Hard Like Armor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alittlestardustcaught](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlestardustcaught/gifts).



> Post-battled dirtybadwrong sexytimes for @alittlestardustcaught's birthday. Jon and Sansa do not know Jon's true parentage here.

It’s the last place she should be.

Jon’s eyes widen to a nearly comical size when he steps into his tent and sees her there, rather than the steward he’d expected. She’d sent Satin off on a grumpkin chase earlier, instructing him to fetch all manner of things that she can’t remember now, things that would take hours to collect. From the look on his face when he bowed to her and ducked out of the tent, he knew precisely what she was about. No surprise there; Jon has told her he was a whore before he went to the Wall. He’d know the excuses clandestine lovers give better than most would.

The tent is smaller and meaner than a man of Jon’s stature could demand. There are few luxuries, not even slight ones, let alone the indulgences Sansa knows Kings typically have. A brazier, a plain wooden chair, a writing table covered in maps and scrolls. The only nod to comfort is the soft furs heaped high on the plain cot. When she’d entered earlier, Sansa recognized them as the old furs from her bed chamber in Winterfell with a delicious thrill.

For several long moments, Jon can only stand and stare at her, looking nearly like a startled stag. Would that make her the huntress? Sansa smiles at the notion. His face is streaked with grime and sweat and even blood. The girl Sansa was, the girl Jon had known so long ago, would have shuddered delicately and turned away in distaste. The woman Sansa is drops the cloak wrapped around her nude body and opens her arms to him.

He’s upon her in a heartbeat.

His skin is damp salt on her tongue as she tastes every piece of him she can. He’d shed his armor in the yard with the help of his squire – Sansa heard his muted voice as she waited, bare and quivering in her cloak, her skin chill and her belly hot, her body aching head to toe with need for him – and he can barely spare a hand to remove his clothes now, he’s so busy touching her, his fingers working between her legs even before his mouth slides from lips to throat to nipple. She peaks once before she even finds the laces of his jerkin, then again as she’s yanking the laces free and laying the leather open. His tunic is plastered to his chest and belly, and she marvels as she always does at the hard planes and ridges of muscle there. Once she wanted boys who were soft and fair of face. Once she’d imagined gentle touches and sweet words. Once she thought with horror of Targaryens wedding brother to sister.

Now Jon drops to his knees to bury his face between her thighs and she fists her hands in his hair and revels at the feel of her brother’s tongue turning her inside out with pleasure.

He stands when she’s on the brink of peaking a third time, his lips slick with her, his eyes hot. She makes an involuntary sound at the loss, reaching for him with greedy hands. He captures them in his and kisses her palms before spinning her around and crowding her towards his writing table. “I’m sorry,” he rasps, “I can’t wait.”

Maps stick to her damp skin, quills dig into her forearms as he pushes inside her from behind with more urgent force than he usually shows her. He sets up a rhythm just short of punishing, which Sansa is shocked to find is exactly what she needs. The table creaks beneath their combined weight. She has a notion it might break and collapse, bringing half the camp running only to find their commander fucking his sister. It’s as unthinkable as it is amusing; Sansa can’t help but giggle, a more girlish sound than she’s made in years. It seems to shake Jon from his lust, though only a bit.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he grits out. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I needed this,” she says tartly, pushing her hips back against his. Then she turns coy, kicking one foot up between his legs to wrap somewhat awkwardly around his thigh. “I was thinking _you_ needed this.

His hand slides up her spine and fists it roughly in the hair at her nape. It’s something he’d never do normally, which tells her just how on the mark she was. But Jon wouldn’t be Jon if he let anything be easy.

“It’s dangerous,” he insists. “You shouldn’t have come.” Sansa rolls her eyes; it’s not enough that he looks like father, he has to act like him now too?

“And yet you’re still fucking me on your war table,” she points out, voice acid. The sound he makes is a laugh and a moan mingled together. He comes inside her, pushing her hips and belly into the table. She only has a moment to wonder if grain of the wood will be imprinted on her skin later when he hauls her up against him, his cock still inside her, and drops his hand to the apex of her thighs. Her back is arched at an awkward angle, a quill is still sticking to her elbow, but she comes as hard as she ever has in her life.

“You should go,” he says later, when he’s fucked her again – properly, amidst her old furs atop his cot -- and they’re lying together, sweaty, quiet, sated. “It’s not safe for you here.”

As if it’s safe for him? Sansa is keenly aware every moment that he could be killed, that he may never come home to her in Winterfell, and that every day the world thought she mourned a brother and not a lover would be like its own death. It makes her all the more determined to wring everything she can from the moments they have together.

“You’re sweet to worry.” 

He’s already hard again when she rolls atop him. His hand slides up her spine to her nape again, as gentle as it was rough before, and he searches her eyes, looking nearly haunted. 

“I don’t feel sweet,” he says. Then he kisses her as if he could climb inside her, and she opens herself to him in every possible way, her mouth, her legs, her heart.

They both know she won’t be going anywhere tonight.


End file.
